Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AF-PAK BORDER REGION, NURISTAN, AFGHANISTAN
“Seahorse One, M-TOC.” Theo’s voice rattled softly over comms from his Mobile Tactical Operations Center. “Bet you two shots of Jack that you’ve been lonesome for that bush near the wadi right there, sir.”
“M-TOC, Seahorse One. You’d lose that bet, asshole,” Rowan replied softly. “I never have time to miss this damn place, because it fucking visits my nightmares every fucking night of the week.”
Except last night.
Last night—
Nope. He refused to allow himself to be distracted and locked that thought down hard. His men, his mission, and Mikey all relied on him keeping his head in the game. His AN/PVS-31s, high-end night vision goggles, bathed the world in an eerie, phosphorescent green. “M-TOC, anything pinging?”
“That’s a negative, Seahorse One.”
“Copy.” The terrain in this region was one hell of a motherfucking adversity. He shifted his MK18 Mod 1 carbine on its sling and pushed on. If Theo didn’t see anything of concern ahead, he’d take it as a win, but knew better than to tempt fate by commenting on it.
I’m getting too old for rucking it in this shithole.
By the time the compound’s squat, ugly cluster of mud-brick buildings ringed by a twelve-foot wall topped with rusted barbed wire loomed ahead, he was ready to go home, put his feet up in front of the fire, and hibernate for the next couple of years.
But somewhere inside those walls, Michael James Wilson was either still breathing and counting on someone coming to pull him out and bring him home, or the poor bastard was already rotting in a hole in the ground.
Ahead of Rowan, Dawsyn paused mid-step, crouched down, and held up a closed fist. “Two tangos, north side, patrolling the perimeter.”
Rowan acknowledged with a flick of his wrist. He flipped his view to infrared, and thermal signatures flickered, showing two distinct heat blooms moving in lazy, unsuspecting arcs along the wall.
One stopped, the orange glow of a cigarette cherry flaring bright in the lens of his NVGs as the guard cupped his hands around the flame.
The other kept walking, his rifle slung low, muzzle pointed at the dirt like he was already half-asleep.
Dawsyn’s voice crackled in Rowan’s earpiece, the transmission so low it was almost subliminal. “Seahorse One, Tango on the left’s got a Motorola clipped to his vest. Radio chatter means reinforcements. Five should take him first. But it’s your call.”
“Copy.” Rowan’s men faded into the surrounding landscape.
As the comms clicks confirmed everyone was in place, he pressed a button on his wrist computer, synchronizing it with the guys so everyone was running on the exact same timeframe.
“Hit it, Seahorse Five,” he ordered. “Three, tango number two is yours.”
“Roger, sir.”
“On it, boss.”
Rowan watched as Jericho’s suppressed shot coughed a muted phut, and the guard dropped over the edge of the wall as his partner reached the corner where he could disappear from view. Colson’s round followed a split second later, dropping him, too.
Rowan cocked his head to one side, listening for any shouts or cries of alarm, and breathed a sigh of relief when all he heard was silence.
If the wildlife had gone silent as they have now, I’d be all over it like a scabby rash.
A single click sounded in his ear. Rowan made a mental note that Bronx was confirming the south side was clear. It was swiftly followed by Calloway’s double click from the east side.
Rowan keyed his mic, his thumb pressing the PTT button on his chest rig.
“All stations, Seahorse One. Breach in three. Valley, Scout get your eyes on the courtyard. Watch for second-story windows.” His voice was a gravelly murmur, barely above a whisper, but the acknowledgment clicks hummed in his ear like a chorus of insects.
They reached the wall, and Dawsyn pressed the breaching charge of C4, molded it into a precise, directional blast against the wooden gate, the adhesive backing hissing faintly as it bonded to the sunbaked timber.
Rowan flipped on his laser and started counting down with his fingers as the team tensed around him.
Three.
Two.
One.
The explosion ripped through the night, a concussive whump that sent a shockwave rolling outward, splinters and dust spraying in a violent halo.
Rowan was already moving through the smoke before it had a chance to clear.
His NVGs cut through the haze, and the courtyard snapped into focus.
He clocked the three tangos near the main building, their AKs slung lazily over their shoulders and cigarettes dangling from their lips.
Picked a hell of a time for a smoke break, assholes.
One turned, his mouth opening to shout a warning, but Rowan’s first three-round burst stitched across his torso, the 5.
56mm rounds punching through, and the impact spun him half-around before he collapsed.
Jericho’s shot dropped the second, the suppressed pfft of his SCAR-H sounding a heartbeat later.
The third tango dove for cover behind a rusted-out Toyota pickup.
Balls. Shoulda hit him, too.
Gunfire erupted from the buildings and muzzle flashes lit up the compound in strobing bursts.
“Bring it. Let’s dance, motherfuckers.” Rowan sidestepped, his reticle, jumping from target to target, his body moving on instinct. A figure lunged from a doorway with an AK raised, but his rounds punched into the man’s sternum, and the weapon skittered across the dirt as he went down.
“Left side, boss,” Jericho’s voice snapped over comms.
Rowan pivoted, his boot heels digging into the loose gravel. Two hostiles sprinted from a side building, their silhouettes stark against the mud-brick walls. He fired and missed, “shit,” the round kicked up dust at their feet.
“Got him,” Dawsyn called a split second before the man jerked, spun around and crumpled. The asshole on his heels made it to cover behind a stack of wooden crates, his AK spitting return fire.
“Frag out!” Bronx’s warning was barely out before the grenade arced through the air. The blast lit the night, a brilliant orange flash followed by the deep boom of the explosion, as debris rained down in a shower of wood and metal.
The flash seared Rowan’s vision, a jagged strobe of white-hot light that painted the compound’s crumbling walls in stark relief before plunging everything back into the suffocating dark. His earpiece erupted in a cacophony of voices.
“Contact right.”
“Three tangos on the riser.”
“Watch the eastern flank.”
But the words blurred into static as his body locked onto the immediate threat.
The air itself seemed to vibrate with the concussive thud of bullets chewing up the dirt around him.
His adrenaline surged, his pulse hammered against his ribs, each beat a reminder that one wrong move, one hesitation, and this whole op could unravel into a bloodbath.
One second, Dawsyn, the reckless bastard, was moving like a shadow, his body a blur of controlled chaos as he weaved between cover, moving steadily toward the door to the main building of the compound.
The next, a bullet caught him mid-stride, the impact spinning him like a top before he hit the ground hard.
His left arm jerked violently, the limb suddenly useless, blood spraying in a dark arc that looked black in Rowan’s NVGs.
The wet thunk of the bullet hitting flesh was almost audible over the chaos, the sound sickeningly familiar.
Dawsyn’s breath punched out of him in a grunt, but before Rowan could even process it, the idiot was already rolling, teeth bared against the pain, his good hand clawing for his sidearm.
“Not to-fucking-day,” his voice a raw, static-laced growl in Rowan’s ear.
Only Dawsyn could muster an attitude with a bullet in his arm.
“Fuck.”
“I’m good,” Dawsyn pressed his back to a wall and started laying down cover fire, one-handed. Go. Go.”
The mission clock was a metronome in his skull; each second was a second less Mikey had before one of the bastards they fought decided to take him out of the game. But even if his training demanded mission first, leaving one of his men injured went against everything that he was.
“Seven, Four’s down.” He forced his lungs to work and his fingers to stay loose on the trigger as he called in their medic.
Edge would take care of Valley because they didn’t have much time before Mikey Wilson was as good as dead, if he wasn’t already.
Rowan had to trust his team to protect their injured brother.
“Go, boss. Damn it, I’m good.”
“Don’t get dead,” Rowan ordered and surged forward behind Jericho, as his muzzle flashes lit up the night in erratic bursts, casting long, shifting shadows against the mud-brick walls.
His finger squeezed the trigger in measured double-taps as they breached the building. The stench hit him like a wall.
What the hell were these motherfuckers doing in here?
The sour, rank smell of sweat, along with the cloying reek of unwashed bodies, and something rotten beneath it made both him and Jericho gag. “Jesus.”
“Dirty bastards.”
Rowan’s stomach lurched, but he swallowed it down, his NVGs flickering as they adjusted to the dim light filtering through the tattered blankets nailed over the windows.
The flimsy fabric flapped wildly in the crossfire, and the team poured in behind him, their boots kicking up dust, their breaths ragged in his earpiece.